A boy pulled at Marcel's arm. The boy was small, he seemed no more than eight, but his eyes were already old. "Poontang, missuh?"
Marcel shook his head.
"Velly clean. Westin style. Oriental. Young, any way you like."
Again Marcel shook his head.
The lad was not easily discouraged. "Eight year old? Five?" He paused. "Boys? You like boys? Velly tlicky."
Marcel didn't bother to answer. He pushed open the door of the house before which he stood, and entered. The heavy odor of incense, intended to hide the aroma of opium, grabbed at his nostrils. He resisted the impulse to sneeze as the young Chinese came toward him.
Behind the closed outer door Marcel heard the boy's voice from the street. "Plick!"
The young Chinese made a face. "I don't know what's happening to the children nowadays. They have no respect for their elders. I apologize a thousand times."
Marcel smiled. "It does not matter, Kuo Minh. The tree is no longer responsible for the fruit once it falls upon the ground."
Kuo Minh bowed. "You are most understanding. My father and my uncles are waiting upstairs."
They climbed the rickety steps to the top floor of the building. Though he had come this way many times now, Marcel always paused in wonder at the change between this floor and the others. Suddenly the halls were intricately inlaid in fruitwood and teak, and the doors were of richly burnished ebony with ivory trim. Kuo Minh opened one and stood back to allow him to enter.
A lovely young girl in classic silks came forward and knelt at his feet to remove his shoes and put on native slippers. When she disappeared Marcel followed the young man into the next room.
There the four men seated at the small table rose and bowed. He returned their greeting and accepted an invitation from Kuo Minh's father to be seated. Almost instantly another young girl brought tea.
The four men waited politely until' their guest had refreshed himself. Then as usual it was Kuo Minh's father who did the talking. It wasn't until after they had exchanged polite small talk about Marcel's health and the health of his wives that he got down to business.
"You have word for us about the guns?"
"I have heard," Marcel answered quietly.
The old man glanced at the others, then back at Marcel. "Good. We have a quantity of poppy with which to pay."
Marcel allowed a look of regret to cross his face. "I am most reluctant to report that it is ships my client is interested in, not poppy."
Kuo Minh's father sucked in his breath. "But you have always traded for poppy."
"I am told the market for poppy has fallen off. At any rate it is ships that my client wants."
They began to talk rapidly among themselves. Marcel did not even try to follow the conversation. They were speaking much too rapidly for his limited Chinese. Besides, it did not matter whether he understood. He knew what he wanted.
It was more than a year now since he had arrived in Macao. And in that year he had become rich beyond all his dreams. Almost from the very first deal. It was the guns that had done it. That and the opium. All the warlords wanted guns. The only way they could get them into China was by smuggling them on the little fishing craft that plied the open seas between the mainland and Macao. And the only way they could pay was with poppy.
But the Japanese had proved much shrewder than Marcel had anticipated. As much money as he had to make deals with, it was but a pittance compared to what they wanted for their ships. It was just about this time, when he had been casting about frantically for a way to increase his capital, that he had got onto the traffic in guns.
It had begun when a man's body had been found floating around the docks. Lieutenant Goa was sitting in Marcel's office at the casino when the word was brought to him. He got to his feet, shaking his head. "We'll never solve this one. He was one of Vorilov's agents."
"Sir Peter Vorilov?"
The policeman nodded. "He does a big business here."
Even as he asked the question Marcel knew it was stupid. "I thought selling munitions here was against the law?"
The policeman looked at him peculiarly. "Isn't almost everything?"
Almost before the policeman left the office Marcel was on his way to catch the afternoon steamer for Hong Kong. He did not dare to send a cable from here. He was certain the police got a copy of every one he sent.
The one he sent to Sir Peter Vorilov in Monte Carlo read: your agent macao dead, my services offered
subject approval christopoulos. wait your reply hong kong, peninsula hotel, kowloon, twenty four hours.
The answer was in his hands less than twelve hours later. services accepted. It was signed vorilov.
Less than two days later Kuo Minh had appeared in his office. Others came and it was always the same. Guns for poppy. In less than a week he found out that the guns Vorilov sold were ancient and had no market anywhere else in the world, and that the price he received abroad for the poppy was more than five times what it cost him. He was actually profiting from both sides of each deal. A year later when the statement came from the bank in Switzerland even he had been surprised. He had over three million dollars in gold to his credit.
It was then that Marcel made up his mind to return to his original purpose. To acquire ships. But if he approached the Japanese they would realize how badly he wanted the ships. The only way was to have the Chinese get them for him.
Now the old man turned and spoke rapidly to his son. After a moment Kuo Minh turned to Marcel. "They say they haven't the money for ships. All they have is poppy. The monkey men won't take poppy."
Marcel pretended to think over what they had said. "Do they know of any ships they can get?"
The men spoke rapidly among themselves. This time the old man spoke directly to Marcel. "There are at least ten old ships we can buy but they are expensive. Perhaps they would cost even more."
Marcel kept his face impassive. "How expensive?"
"It doesn't matter," the old man said, "we do not have the money."
Again Marcel pretended to be lost in thought. "Would it help if I found another market for your poppy?"
The old man nodded. "It would be a great help."
"I will make inquiries. But I doubt I can get you as high prices."
"We will be forever in your debt."
"Bon." Marcel got up. "I will be in touch with you soon to let you know what success I have had."
They rose and bowed ceremoniously. After Marcel's footsteps had faded they spoke among themselves. "They are all the same," one said, "sooner or later their greed overcomes them."
"Yes," replied another, "you would think he would be satisfied stealing from both us and the Russian. But no, that is not enough. Now he plans to take even more from us to purchase his accursed ships."
"I think it is time we sent him to join his predecessor in the harbor," said a third.
Kuo Minh came back into the room just as his father held up his hand. "No, good brothers, it is not yet time. We cannot afford to be idle until the Russian finds a replacement for him."
"You are willing to let him rob us even more?"
"He will not rob us," Kuo Minh's father said calmly. "As soon as we find out how much less he will pay us for the poppy, we will double the sum and add it to the cost of the vessels he seeks."
"He has become rich," Christopoulos ranted. "In less than a year he has amassed three millions in Swiss banks. Now we find that he owns the twenty ships he was supposed to buy for us. And he has the nerve to tell us that he can arrange for us to lease them."
Sir Peter looked at him steadily. "What do you want me to do?"
"Surely the money came from somewhere. Since the books of the casino are in order, he has to be stealing from you."
Sir Peter smiled. "Not from me. His accounts are meticulous. He has collected the full amount for me on every transaction."
"Then he must be overcharging your customers."
"That's their tough luck." Sir Peter shrugged. "M
y prices are high enough to satisfy me. If they wish to pay more I cannot stop them."
"Then there's nothing you can do to stop him?"
"I have no reason to stop him," Sir Peter corrected. "Only you have, only you can."
"How?"
"Don't lease the ships from him. What is he going to do with twenty ships and no cargoes? He will break himself in a month."
"Then the Japanese will repossess them and we'll be just as bad off as before."
"That's your tough luck." Sir Peter looked at his watch. "I must be going now. It is nearly bedtime for my son. I try to be there as often as I can. At my age I can't look forward to being there for too many more."
He walked the tailleur to the door. "You know, Christopoulos, you shouldn't be so greedy. A long time ago I learned to stick to my own business. You should do what you do best—dealing cards."
Eli looked up as his uncle got into the car. "What did the old man say?"
Christopoulos cursed.
"He won't do anything?"
"No, he says his books are in order, too." His voice went slightly bitter. "I have the feeling he was laughing at me."
They rode in silence for a few minutes. "What are you going to do?"
"Damn him," the uncle replied, "I told the baron I didn't trust him. If he were here I would kill him with my bare hands."
"Why bother?" Eli asked lightly. "In Macao there is someone who would be glad to do it for you."
The uncle looked over at him.
"If he hasn't been stealing from you and he hasn't been stealing from Sir Peter he must be stealing from someone. So it must be the Chinese with whom he is doing business."
"You know them?"
"Everybody in Macao knows them. All it would take is a letter from me."
"But surely they're not that stupid. They must know what he is doing without your telling them. Why haven't they killed him before this?"
Eli glanced at his uncle. "The Chinese are not like us. In the Orient there is a thing called 'face.' So long as only he and they knew, it did not matter. They still got what they wanted. But should it become common knowledge that he is stealing from them they would lose much face if they did not kill him."
Christopoulos' face twisted in anger. "Give me one month to make the proper arrangements with the Japanese. Then write your friend a letter."
CHAPTER 19
Marcel sat behind his desk and studied the American. He was tall and red-faced and his eyes were blue and hard. Marcel glanced down at the business card again.
JOHN HADLEY, VICE PRESIDENT
AMERICAN FREIGHT LINES INC.
Marcel looked at him again. "And what can I do for you, Mr. Hadley?"
Hadley came right to the point. "I came here looking for ships. You've got them all."
Marcel made a disparaging gesture. "Not all."
"No," Hadley admitted wryly, "only those that are still seaworthy." He leaned forward in his chair. "I am authorized to offer you a handsome profit if you will sell them to us."
Marcel smiled. "That is always good to hear. But I am not yet prepared to sell."
"What are you going to do with them? You haven't yet reached an agreement on your leasing deal. And you're surely not going to eat them."
Marcel was no longer casual. Apparently the American was well informed. "They will lease the ships."
"I have heard they won't. I have heard they made a proposition to the Japanese to buy the ships after they've starved you out."
Marcel stared at him. So that was the reason they were taking so long in answering. "They won't starve me out," he said, more confidently than he felt. "I will find cargoes."
"How?" the American asked. "Here in Macao?"
It was true. It was only small shipping that came here. The big cargoes went elsewhere. There was a saying on the wharfs: If it's too big to be smuggled who needs it? Marcel took a deep breath. "I have agents in Hong Kong."
"You have nobody," Hadley replied positively. "If you don't make a deal with the Greeks you've had it. The Japs will have their ships back in two months."
"In that case why don't you go to them?"
Hadley smiled. "Because we want to make sure we get the ships. I'd rather make a bum deal with you and get them than take a chance on the Japanese."
"You speak frankly."
"It's the only way we do business. My boss has no patience with devious schemes. He goes after what he wants."
Marcel nodded. He knew the reputation of the owner of American Freight Lines. A poor Boston Irishman, he had fought his way up to gain control of many companies and he had amassed tremendous wealth. It was his ruthlessness and determination that gave his shipping line almost a freight monopoly to and from South America.
Marcel tried to remember what else he had heard about James Hadley. In recent years it was said he had turned more and more to politics. He had become important in the political party that had just elected Roosevelt for a second term, and there was talk that the President would offer him an ambassadorship. Already he had represented the country at several important diplomatic negotiations, where he had only succeeded in creating an impression of complete vulgarity. But now he had two sons in his large family at Harvard and there was talk that he was softening. Like all the newly rich he had begun to think of entering the new world to which money alone would not admit him. The world of influence.
Suddenly it dawned on Marcel that the man opposite him bore the same name. He picked up the card again. "You are related?"
The American nodded. "We are first cousins."
"I see."
Hadley waited a moment, then, when Marcel did not continue, said, "Then you are determined not to sell your ships?"
Marcel nodded.
"In that case I have an alternative suggestion. We have fifty ships flying the American flag. We would like to transfer them to foreign registry for tax purposes. I propose that we pool them in a mutual company and register them in a country whose neutrality would be maintained in case of war. That way our ships would be assured of the freedom of the seas."
Marcel shook his head. "That is impossible. They would still be known as your ships."
Hadley looked at him shrewdly. "Not if we sold them to you. Our interest would be vested in a Swiss corporation."
"But what country could we register them in? Swiss registry would never stand up."
"You spent many years as assistant in the Corteguayan consulate in Paris."
Again Marcel stared. The Americans were much shrewder than he had thought. "But Corteguay already has an agreement with the De Coyne interests."
"And what have they to show for it?" Hadley asked scornfully. "Four lousy ships when twenty would not be enough!"
"Still they do have an agreement."
"How long do you think that agreement would stand up if we pointed out to their president the advantages of doing business with us?" Hadley retorted. "Politicians are the same all over the world."
For the first time in a long while Marcel thought about the dead consul. Jaime Xenos had wanted something like this for his country more than anything else in the world. Still, this would have horrified him. But the American was right. There were not many with the integrity of Dax's father.
"How would you get to el Presidente?" Marcel asked. "I was merely a clerk in the consulate. I would have absolutely no influence."
"Leave that to us," Hadley replied with assurance. "All I need from you is an agreement in principle." He got to his feet. "I'm going back to Hong Kong on the afternoon boat. Think it over. I'll be at the Peninsula Hotel for a few days if you should want to get in touch with me."
"I'll think about it."
They shook hands and Marcel stared thoughtfully at the door after Hadley left. He knew why Hadley was remaining in Hong Kong—to talk with the Japanese about the ships. He was taking no chances, whatever Marcel's decision might be.
Suddenly Marcel cursed. Somewhere along the line something had gone wrong. It ha
d to be something he had never suspected. Angrily his fist hit the desk. Damn the Greeks! The old saying that you could never trust one was absolutely true. Already they were trying to stab him in the back. And if it hadn't been for him, they would never have had a chance at the ships at all.
The house was unusually quiet when he came home that night. Even Jade Lotus seemed subdued as she took off his shoes and brought him his slippers. When she brought his evening aperitif he asked, "Are you all right?"
She seemed pale. He looked at her thoughtfully. He knew better than to question her. Suddenly she spoke no French at all, only Chinese, and he would learn absolutely nothing. Besides, he had grown very fond of this quiet lovely girl he had bought.
He remembered the day he had brought her home. His other wives were already there, lined up in the doorway to welcome her. He had thought they might be jealous—of her beauty, of the fact that she came from a better family. But much to his surprise it proved to be exactly the opposite. They exclaimed happily over her beauty and delighted in the profusion of her fine clothing. They clustered around her, squealing in their singsong high-pitched voices, "Welcome, sister. Welcome, sister."
That night when he entered his bedroom there were fresh flowers in the vase near the window, and incense burned fragrantly in front of the smiling Buddha. There were even new silk sheets on his bed. He had just begun to undress when there was a sound behind him and he found himself surrounded by his three other wives.
Laughing and giggling, they undressed him, then pushed him naked between the sheets. Motioning for him to stay there, they left the room and in a moment he heard the sound of a lyre, plucked softly. It came closer and closer. Soon it was outside his door. He turned as the door opened.
Jade Lotus came in first. He could do nothing but stare at her. He had never seen anyone more beautiful. Her hair hung softly around her face, her eyes appeared jet black. The diaphanous silk gown she wore clung to her figure, revealing a body resembling gleaming ivory. She moved slowly toward him on mincing feet.
Behind her came the other wives. One was playing a tiny lyre, another carried a bowl of sweetmeats and candied fruit peels, the third bore a decanter of wine. Jade Lotus stopped in front of the bed, her eyes cast down modestly.
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